


Hiding Place for Weary Men

by Roehrborn



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bitterness, M/M, Oswald and Jerome are amping up to destroy Gotham, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 09:57:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12956790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roehrborn/pseuds/Roehrborn
Summary: Victor visits Oswald at Arkham.





	Hiding Place for Weary Men

**Author's Note:**

> Gotham midseason finale got me like tired, disappointed, and a little depressed. Some unusual fare incoming.
> 
> I’ve added a hilariously complicated explanation for why Oswald didn’t know where Martin was: to prevent anyone from finding/tracking him, there was a series of transfers set up, with a variable timetable, so Oswald wasn’t sure which one Martin was at when Jim was questioning him. Ofc the reality is the show doesn’t care about consistent characterization. Sorry, I’ll stop bitching, please enjoy the ride.  
> ~R

He’s more prepared this time.

The routine of Arkham is grating, exhausting, and he has a split lip and a black eye. But without Hugo Strange, and with his tentative… _ally-ship_ with Jerome Valeska only growing, he’s reasonably confident that this won’t end quite as poorly as his first stint in Arkham.

Oswald is beginning to allow himself to become optimistic. Surely, with their combined skillsets and experience, he and Jerome will manage to escape. Although Jerome’s taste for chaos doesn’t sit easily with Oswald; he wants to _rule_ Gotham, not be the cause for its destruction.

But it’s true that not a single person out there cares for either of them. It doesn’t seem to _rankle_ Jerome like it does Oswald, but at least they have that much in common.

Which is why Oswald is entirely at a loss when they shackle him up and inform him he’s got a visitor waiting– _Ed_? is the first fleeting, hopeful thought, followed by _Sofia come to gloat_? but she wouldn’t waste the time.

_Jim_ , he settles on. Jim, asking for yet another favor he has no intention of repaying. Oswald will deny him, no matter what it is.

  


━━━━━━━━━━━━

  


“Hey, Oswald.”

Oswald pauses upon the threshold, uncertainty, anger, and regret in equal parts scoring through him. The guard’s hand tightens on his shoulder, though, and he’s shoved through and toward the little metal visitor’s table, the likes of which he’d once sat at whilst visiting Ed.

Victor is reclined in his chair in an easy pose, legs crossed nonchalantly and combat boots resting on the table. Oswald doesn’t see any weapons, but he’s certain Victor has several hidden away where the guards can’t find. Anyway, even if he were unarmed, Oswald knows better than to think he’d stand a chance against him. Victor is the _best_ for a reason.

The guard pushes Oswald’s shoulder until his leg gives and he collapses onto the metal chair, and he surrenders disgruntledly as the guard fastens his handcuffs to the table (as if _Victor_ needed to be protected from _him_ ). An involuntary shiver rocks Oswald as the guard pulls away; the metal chair is _biting_ cold through the thin material of his Arkham uniform.

Oswald leans back against the hard bars of the chair’s backrest, fixing his lips into a flat line and his expression unimpressed. Victor stares back at him, impassively.

What _about_ Victor’s betrayal had struck so harshly?

Was it that...Oswald had begun to think they _understood_ each other? That they were the _same_?

“Guards treating you all right?” Victor asks idly, his voice smooth, with the assurance of a stalking predator.

“Oh, you know me, _Victor_ ,” Oswald bites out. “I’m everyone’s favorite.”

Victor blinks, slowly. Is it Oswald’s imagination, or are the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced than ever?

The silence drags on too long. Victor has always seemed unaffected by awkwardness like this, and in most cases, it hadn’t bothered Oswald. But here and now, the silence _stings_.

“Are you here to kill me?” Oswald demands finally.

Victor blinks again. “If I was going to kill you, I’d have done it before,” he drawls. “I wouldn’t have turned you over to Jim.”

There’s something just under the surface, something Oswald’s not–“Which begs the question, Victor: if you thought I truly killed Carmine, why _didn’t_ you kill me yourself? Your loyalty was to _him_ , not Sofia.”

Victor’s head tilts to the side, slowly, in that curious doglike way he does. “Why didn’t you let me kill Nygma?”

Oswald blinks. Victor doesn’t.

“What?”

“You had the other Victor–”

Oswald tries to gesture sharply to cut him off, falling into old habits–but the chain halts his movement and the handcuff digs into his wrist painfully. He winces as he drops his hands back down to the surface of the table, resting together mock-serenely. He inhales deeply. “I remember what _happened_. What does that have to do with...this?”

“I thought you understood,” Victor says, vaguely, but before Oswald can interrupt to say that apparently he _hadn’t_ , Victor continues: “I owed loyalty to Carmine, but working with you was fun. But you didn’t need to do that. You shouldn’t have.”

“Victor,” Oswald hisses. He leans in over the table, close enough that he can see how red Victor’s eyes are. “ _I am telling the truth_. When have you known me to _not_ take responsibility for a crime I’ve committed?”

“I knew you back then,” Victor says, and Oswald feels a cold rush pass over him. “You lie a lot.”

“Yes, but–” Oswald leans back again, biting his tongue so hard he tastes copper. He wants to _scream_. He wants to throw the table. The last time he was in Arkham, he’d begged and pleaded for Jim Gordon to believe him, but of course he hadn’t–and why should he expect anyone to believe him, anyway?–but he’d always hoped, always _believed_ Victor _knew_ him.

“Victor,” Oswald starts, then stops. “How is the little one?” he asks finally.

“He reached destination six a little less than a week ago. It’s complete,” Victor tells him readily. There must be something in Oswald’s eyes because he adds: “I didn’t tell her where he is. She wouldn’t want anything from him, anyway, as long as you’re in here.”

“Does she know he’s alive?” Oswald hisses, and Victor shakes his head immediately. “Thank you,” Oswald says quietly, and he allows his eyes to fall shut for one brief moment.

Martin’s safety had been plaguing him–he’d set up the transfers in advance, but the timetable varied depending on local situations, and he’d been fearful that without his enforcement and communication Martin would never reach his designated foster family.

“He wrote you a letter, but they wouldn’t let me bring it in,” Victor continues, and Oswald inhales sharply. That’s _pain_ in his gut. That’s _longing_. Is Victor _playing_ with him, like he does his prey? Despite his assurances that he wasn’t here to kill him?

“Damn it all, Victor,” Oswald bites out, finally. “Why are you toying with me? What’s your _purpose_ here?”

Victor kicks his feet off the table, and his combat boots land to the cement floor with an ominous _thud_. He leans forward a little, resting his hands on his knees. “Why didn’t you have me kill Nygma? Why did you let him go?”

“You know _why_ , Victor,” Oswald snarls. Pathetically, horrifically, there are _tears_ in his eyes. “Don’t pretend you weren’t there to _see_ it.”

“Can’t you say it?” Victor poses.

“He is the _love_ of my life, no matter what he does. No matter how much he hurts me,” Oswald says, and pronouncements like this shouldn’t grow _more_ painful over time, they should grow _easier_ …

“Bingo,” Victor says, but the playful turn of phrase doesn’t fit the look in his eyes.

Wait, he–

Victor rises to his feet. “I’ll come see you again, probably,” he tells Oswald. Oswald can’t say a word; he can only stare after Victor, struck completely silent. “Maybe see if I can bring you a sweater. My bubbe knits a really good one.”

“Victor–”

“Bye, Oswald,” Victor interrupts him, and turns on his heel leaves the room.

It takes a few long minutes for the guard to return to collect Oswald, and by that time the cold has seeped up from the seat of his chair and all the way to Oswald’s heart, rendering him immobile.

  


━━━━━━━━━━━━

  


“Hey, Pengy, how was your glimpse of the outside?”

“Enough, Jerome,” Oswald snaps, but it doesn’t hold bite. Not that that would deter _Jerome_ , anyway.

“Ooo, not so hot, then?” the always-cheerful man inquires, plopping his elbows on the dining table across from Oswald and resting his chin on them. The ever-present smile on his face is undeterred by Oswald’s responding scowl.

_Victor. All this time…_

Oswald had been certain he’d never caught anyone’s eye _that_ way. To think that Victor...could he have been lying? But for what purpose?

Why hadn’t Victor _told_ him? He wouldn’t have been _cruel_.

If Victor had–had–

Victor would taste like gunpowder and blood and _violence_ and _together_ they could have _destroyed_ Sofia and could-have-would-have ruled Gotham–had Victor stayed by his side and been faithful, had Victor told him, had Victor _believed_ him…

“ _Peeeeeengy_?”

He’s beginning to think Jerome has the right of it. He’s beginning to think _Fish_ had the right of it, cradled in his arms and bleeding out, what feels like a lifetime ago. _You make this city yours or you burn it to the ground._

“ _Waaaally_?”

“Jerome,” Oswald interrupts, and the other man falls silent. Oswald licks his lips. “How do you feel about burning this city?”

“ _Ohhhhh_ ,” Jerome says lowly. His lips twitch in an erratic wide grin, that unnerving staccato chuckle escaping him. “ _Ohhhh, Pengy_ , I thought you’d _never_ ask.”

  
  
  



End file.
